


and eager besides

by smithens



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: During Canon, Fade to Black, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22232737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Thomas dresses the Duke for dinner.Among other things.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Duke of Crowborough
Comments: 20
Kudos: 61





	and eager besides

"What, _before_ dinner?"

"Well, I'm good at my job, aren't I," Thomas breathes between kisses. He's lovedrunk, and Philip is doing his best not to be, to keep his head, but it is growing more and more difficult by the moment. "No one'll notice a thing, after."

Philip hums.

It is tempting, for Thomas is entirely irresistible and eager besides, but –

Thomas mouths down from his neck to the join of his collarbones with a hint of teeth. "I could even give you a bath, if you'd like."

 _He has such a lovely mouth,_ Philip thinks, and he adjusts the hold of their hands such that their fingers are entwined.

"I don't think we've time for quite so much as that."

And Thomas shakes his head. "No, but…"

They are doubtless both remembering the same evening.

"…I – I've missed you."

"And I you," he says, the words catching in his throat.

He wishes he hadn't. That would make everything far more simple.

"Well, yes," Thomas says, and then there is a sparkling laugh, the likes of which Philip is sure has never before been heard upstairs at the Abbey, and he is once again made painfully aware of the two lives this man lives, that he _must_ live, and how he himself has somehow become a part of both and neither of them, all at once. "I know."

"You're very confident this evening," Philip returns. He can tease, he tells himself, Thomas will enjoy that, but this cannot go very far. The clock is ticking. "How _do_ you know?"

"You wrote."

By God, did he write.

"Yes, I suppose I did," he says airily. 

Unbeknownst to Thomas, he has the proof of that here in the room with them — proof that by morning will all be ashes whether or not this machination of theirs bears fruit, because there are only so many risks worth taking where one's entire livelihood is concerned.

Thomas wrote, too, of course, and Philip knows very well what he's capable of.

Or rather, what he thinks he's capable of.

"And you're much better with words than I am," Thomas says after a moment, a little too blasé; he presses a kiss to his collar, flicks his tongue.

Philip scoffs. "You're excellent with words."

Putting him off is growing to be unbearably difficult.

"For a footman."

He can't quite tell if Thomas is seeking compliments or being genuinely hard on himself — there is, after all, a fine line between the two, especially where he's concerned, but the latter seems unlikely. 

"You've managed to give me a great deal to think about nonetheless," Philip says. It's an understatement, because to tell the truth — that he could very well be a romance novelist if he so chose, so long as he properly learned the lessons the Decadents never did — would do far too much to his ego, and if not that be taken as a great insult.

Perhaps the last thing that Thomas would ever like to hear said of him is that he is at all _romantic._

Thomas draws his lips down further, a graze upon his sternum and then his chest, before sliding his free hand around his waist beneath the dressing gown and moving back up again, against his hair. It is unduly pleasant.

"Well, that was all I wanted, wasn't it," Thomas says, the words a waterfall from his mouth, in a daze. He pulls back, head and hands both, and looks up at him with a smirk.

Always a tease _._

"Was it?" Philip asks lightly.

"If I couldn't have the real thing," he returns, standing up, and it takes rather a large amount of effort for Philip to effectively frown at him. 

By all rights this ought to be ending; they have only so much time before he must be downstairs, but… 

"You have the real thing now, Thomas."

It has been a very long time, after all.

"Not how I want him."

"And how is that?"

Without warning, Thomas straddles him in the chair. "Not in a way we've got time for, I'll tell you that much," he murmurs into his ear, and… 

Good God.

"You'll undress me later, won't you?"

"Have to dress you first, don't I," Thomas purrs.

"Precisely," says Philip in return, scolding, though lighthearted in it.

Thomas, beautiful Thomas, sulky and pettish and at once with too much and not enough cleverness, sits back on his lap, and Philip thinks _to hell with it,_ wraps his arms around his neck, and kisses him.

*

"Not a hair out of place," he tells Thomas. As though it were all very much effort to fix — then, it might have been, he certainly couldn't have done it all himself in such short time. "You could be a lady's maid."

"And what fun that would be," Thomas drawls. But through the mirror Philip can see him preening over the remark.

"Not nearly so much as valeting is for you, I presume."

He scoffs. "'ts only _fun_ where you're concerned."

"Really?" Philip says, a tad sardonic. "I rather thought you were champing at the bit."

"A good job's still a job."

He knows that, of course, though Thomas might question how much — and rightly, too. There is, and always has been, a chasm between them, though neither of them much like to speak of it.

Thomas steps beside him and takes the comb from the dressing table before beginning to fuss at his own hair; when Philip raises his eyebrows, he only raises his back.

"Well, I've got to look presentable, too."

 _Your lips are swollen,_ Philip thinks, _your cheeks are flushed._

"You look lovely," he says, honestly.

"And?"

"And entirely unpresentable."

He presses his thumb to Thomas's lower lip; Thomas goes one step further and mouths at it.

"Greedy," he chides; when he pulls back, Thomas says, cheeky, "why, thank you for your honesty, your Grace."

"I really must go down," Philip tells him. They both know it, of course; they've pushed their luck. He cannot under any circumstances be late to dine, and by now the Crawleys will have begun to gather in the drawing room — he needs plenty of time before dinner is served.

There are impressions to make.

"Go on, then," Thomas says, and then once he's at the door he adds, absolutely dripping with sarcasm, "I'll see you there." 

"And after," Philip says coyly, and he sets his hand on the doorknob, only watching.

On the verge of a smile, Thomas looks away. "Send my love to Lady Mary."

"Because you've so much to give," Philip retorts, and he doesn't wait to hear what Thomas has to say about that before taking his leave.

It's the pot calling the kettle black, after all.

*

"There's the last of it," Thomas says flippantly. "You toffs and your clothes," and despite the heaviness in his heart he finds himself laughing. He does, after all, love him for a reason.

Did.

Rather.

The more he says it the more true it will be.

Philip slips his arms through the sleeves of the offered dressing gown and does his best to ignore Thomas, always so prodigal with his affection, pressing kisses to the back of his neck. 

_His best_ is not, it turns out, very good.

"Thomas," he says blithely, "you are positively incorrigible."

And then, gentle, patient, for he can be those things, Philip turns to face him and adds, "we really ought to discuss the matter of – "

Forestalling, eager, Thomas kisses him properly — he believes he knows what's coming, Philip knows.

He doesn't.

**Author's Note:**

> this was going to be more + different than it turned out to be but now i just have.... another work for this pairing in progress. so. there's that. we'll see where it goes.
> 
> as always, [my tumblr is @combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com)!


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